


bloodshot

by millieisnotanidiot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, How Do I Tag, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27191584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millieisnotanidiot/pseuds/millieisnotanidiot
Summary: When John finally visits 221B again, he finds a disheveled Sherlock with greasy hair, bloodshot eyes and unwashed clothes, he automatically assumes the worst. Little does John know, his eyes are red for a different reason.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 74





	bloodshot

"Sherlock, dear?" Mrs Hudson calls up the stairs, "are you alright?"

Sherlock had done so well at the wedding, she thought, he had given a wonderful speech, played the violin perfectly, and danced with that pretty woman in purple, but as soon as the first dance was over, he had bolted. Not that the happy couple had noticed, but she had asked Molly to keep a special eye on things, as Sherlock wasn't exactly known for his social skills - she came up to her, slightly buzzed from the champagne, to tell her that he had just disappeared using the back exit.

"Sherlock?" She called again.

She couldn't hear much noise, but occasionally caught the sound of a rustle of fabric, or a muffled grunt. She slowly began to climb the stairs, careful to miss the creaky ones, so as not to make Sherlock aware of her presence. She peeked open the door to 221B, only to find him still in his suit, eyes bloodshot and shaking in the corner, cheeks red and blotchy, hands quivering.

"Oh, Sherlock," She whispered, hurrying over. 

With a quick scan of the room, Mrs Hudson found she couldn't see any syringes, nor any lines of white powder, so she didn't have to worry about bothering John just as he left for his honeymoon. She crouched down, or rather crouched as gracefully as she could with her damn hip. She sat down next to him, and gently pulled his hands away from his face.

"He left, he left, he isn't coming back, he left," Was the panicked mantra pouring from his mouth, the muffled words she'd heard from the stairs.

"Who left, Sherlock? I can't help you if I don't know who left," She whispered into his hair, doing her best to calm the shaking man.

"John did, he left with that awful woman, and they have a baby on the way, he'll be too busy for me, he'll forget about me, he won't come on cases, he won't want me around, but I need him, I need him like I've never needed anyone, b-but he doesn't, h-he doesn't..." 

Mrs Hudson might not be a world-class consulting detective, but it didn't take too much effort to realise what the sobbing man was saying.

"Oh, Sherlock, you poor thing," she murmured, "I didn't think you did that kind of thing, you never let on, you didn't... apart from that speech. It was so..." She broke off, not knowing how to continue.

"I had to tell him. He doesn't know, but I had to tell him - he was getting married, married to someone else, I had to let it out in some way. Mycroft's right, I always have been the emotional one," He laughs, "I don't know how he didn't notice, I guess he was too enamoured with his new wife, his new pregnant wife,"

Mrs Hudson didn't know what to do - if it was any another situation, she would have called John, but he had just left for Perth for two weeks, so it was up to her for now.

"Up you get, mister," She said, trying to stand up without toppling, "Let's get you into bed, you're in no state to be awake, not when you're this upset,"

She grabbed him by the armpits, hauled him up to standing - most of him relying on her tiny frame to help him walk. She lugged him through the living room, his sobbing intensifying when he passed John's chair. Mrs Hudson shoved open his bedroom door, where he threw himself into his bed, and curled himself up in his quilt. She quietly left the room, popped the kettle on, and prepared herself for along couple of weeks.

*****  
Sherlock was the most un-Sherlock he had ever been - he refused to help that nice DI with any cases, didn't touch his violin for days, was even polite to Molly when she popped over with a fresh bag of ears. All that seemed to be on his mind was John, which only made things worse, resulting in Mrs Hudson staying up half the night to try and convince him that it was alright, that John would come back.

However, she was beginning to get antsy. John had been back in town for a week, and he hasn't even rung. Sherlock was getting worse, and she was seriously considering calling that god-awful brother, to find out where in the /ruddy hell/ he was.  
She knew he was going to work, the man had just gotten married, then went on a honeymoon, he needed a steady income. She also knew that he was staying in the suburbs with Mary, because he wasn't here, and hotel prices in Central London were beyond silly.

Putting the kettle on, she decided to nip out and buy some biscuits - decisions are always easier with biscuits.

*****  
Hearing the creaks on the stairs, he tries to stop thinking about the stash of heroin knows he has stashed in the bathroom, Hudders had done so much for him, it would be rather rude to overdose on her carpet. He hadn't changed his clothes in days now - not that it mattered anyway, he had already made a show of himself in front of Geoff (George?) and Molly, and John wasn't coming back, so any reason for dressing up has gone. 

He's finally gone insane. He's reached the level of insanity where even thinking of John makes him smell his cologne - he must do a study on how memories affect the senses, it's rather interesting. Oh, and a cough too, now, fascinating.

"Sherlock?" 

He refuses to let himself look up, because if he looks up, he'll be gone. Here come the tears, again. Maybe he should go get that heroin, after all, who's there to stop him? He reaches for the coffee table and pushes himself up, only to collide with something warm, something solid.

The warm, solid thing is sturdy, and doesn't topple when he crashes into it, but does push him away rather suddenly. He feels his head being pushed up, as though being examined, and let himself believe it was John, his John.

Sherlock feels his eyes being prodded open, and finally sees his anonymous examiner, to see the golden-skinned face of an extremely angry John Watson.

"J-John?" He asks, words slurred with confusion.

He barely has enough time to move before he is being shoved into his chair, and being shouted at.

"I leave for two weeks - two weeks - and this is what you do!? You wear days old clothes, don't shower, and feel sorry for yourself? Look at you, you look like an addict!" John shouts, fists balled at his side's.

The words hit him like a truck, he really believes that little of him? That no matter what, he will always be a danger to himself, someone who needs supervision?

"You couldn't just let me have this, could you? It had to be about you, because being famous isn't enough for Sherlock Holmes, he has to fake his own death for two years, leave me alone for two years, and the second I get married, it has to be about you again, so you dose yourself up, just to have the limelight on you!"

He gets how it looks, all of the signs are there; the flat is upturned, he hasn't showered in days, wearing some of the most dishevelled clothes he owns, he's paler than usual, his skin is blotchy, and to top it off, his bloodshot eyes make him look high as a kite. He will not be mad at this man, the man who left him alone, who left him for some stupid blonde, perfectly average woman.

So he sits there, and lets the abuse be thrown at him, because he knows it's a bad idea to interrupt him when he's angry - he bets Mary doesn't know that. 

He can't even hear what John is screaming at him anymore, he just knows that he came back, he's screaming and angry and probably about to punch him, but he came back. He can't help the tears falling down his face, or slowly falling to the floor, but all he can think is how grateful he is that he didn't take those drugs.

*****  
When Mrs Hudson comes back from the shop, the door is open. She never leaves the door open, not with those awful types that generally try to kill Sherlock, so someone else must be in there.

She carefully puts down her bag of biscuits, and once again, climbs the stairs to 221B. At the top of said stairs, there is a very angry, very red John Watson.

The first thing she does, without thinking about it, is to slap him. Hard. The bastard had left her poor Sherlock alone, she was lucky she didn't have a gun on her.

"You bastard! Do you have any idea what you've done to him? You left him, alone, for two weeks - you didn't call, text, email or write! I have stayed up half the night just to make sure he didn't do something stupid - I almost had to call his brother!" She whispered, too angry to yell.

"He shouldn't have to be coddled! He's fully grown, he should be able to cope without me! I have a wife, and a child on the way, he can't expect me to be there on a whim! I have priorities, he isn't one of them!" He shouts, somehow still getting redder in the face.

It was then that Sherlock opened the door, and turned to John.

"I'm sorry to have wasted your time. Good day." He said, before solemnly descending the stairs, and softly shutting the front door.

He'd really messed up this time.

*****

In the end, John went to find him. It had been hours, it was the middle of the night, and he was worried. He might be pissed off, but the man was his best friend, he couldn't just abandon him. 

Sherlock was passed out drunk when he finally found him, in quite possibly one of the sketchiest areas of London. Despite his lean frame, he weighed a tonne, and took a lot of effort to haul into a taxi, making no moves to help him.

When they got to Baker Street, John payed whilst Sherlock slowly skilled back inside. He was barely up the stairs before John blew off again.

"God, Sherlock, why don't you ever think about your actions! I had to come looking for you, in the middle of the night, to find you in an area full of dealers, and drag you back here, instead of going back home to Mary - you know, my wife-" 

"Did you ever think, just for a moment, how it affected me? Did you notice when I left your wedding, after your first dance? Did you notice Mrs Hudson hurrying after me? Did you maybe notice that my eyes were red because I'd been crying for a fortnight, not drugs? There were no other signs, but it was the first conclusion you drew. I was so close," He said, taking a steadying breath, "so close, to using again. But I didn't - because I promised you I wouldn't. I had to watch my best friend get married, when it should have been me walking down the aisle, it should have been me holding your hand, it should have been me reading vows-"

He was cut off by warm arms enveloping him. Everything just stopped, the only thing that mattered were John's arms around him, that he was being held safe.

"It's okay, I'm here now, I won't leave - Sherlock I need you to breath with me... In, out, that's it," He said, soothing words warming the crying man.

They sat there, like that, arms wrapped around one another for a while. It could have been minutes, or hours, but they fell asleep, eventually, protecting eachother from the outside world.

When they awoke, legs tangled together, it wasn't questioned. When Sherlock refused to stay more than a metre away from John at any given time, it wasn't questioned. When soft lips brushed against soft lips, it wasn't questioned.

They were problems for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this monstrosity, and as it's my first johnlock fic, constructive criticism is welcome, but don't be an arse.  
> -m :)


End file.
